Future Tense
by Mechabeira
Summary: "And here we are. Tony and Ziva in future tense." A departure in three chapters. T/Z
1. Chapter 1

Thanks: Amilyn, girleffect

Disclaimer: No. Poor.

 _She tucks herself closer to him. "I did not think you would come."_

 _But he did. "And here we are. Tony and Ziva in future tense."_

My way of coping with MW's grand exit. And oh, the last three years. T/Z forever and always.

. . . .

It comes on a Tuesday. 0945.

A text.

 _I am in New York._

One line.

Prefix +972.

Israel.

 _Ziva._

He wants to crawl through the receiver, through the satellites, all the way into her arms.

His reply: _What are you doing here?_

Not _here-_ here. _Here_ -here is the bullpen, where he is and Ziva is not. He means in the US.

The reply: _I am with Schmiel._

His stomach clenches.

Follow-up: _I would love to see you_.

He does not hesitate. _Let me wrap up._

There is no response while he closes out, packs up, fishes his keys from his desk drawer. Not until he dashes for the elevator and Gibbs gives him the body-block.

His eyes are not hard, not soft. "DiNozzo."

"Ziva's in New York."

He nods. "Keep me-"

"Copy, Boss." And Tony is off again, running for his car, heading, for a split-second, to I-95.

He changes his mind. Union Station is two miles from the Navy Yard.

Tony will take the train.

There is a 1010 departure that will put him at Penn Station in a little over three hours. He buys a ticket and dashes, dashes to the platform.

The train is empty, save a boy scout troop and a clutch of elderly women in matching red jackets.

He finds a seat. Sits. Folds his hands.

He is going to her.

DC slides away, Baltimore, the tidal flats, Wilmington, Philly and Camden across the river. Jersey-Jersey-Jersey and then he is bounding off the train at Penn Station.

Tony has not been in New York in years. He has forgotten the rush, the _thrust_ of the people. The subway walk-sprint.

Manhattan smells like diesel exhaust and old garbage.

He takes the A line uptown to 168th Street and walks the last blocks at a clip.

Texts her—

 _Her_.

 _What floor?_

Immediate response: _2_ _._

He scans the directory board. _Second Floor—Oncology_.

His heart falls into his Italian leather shoes.

There is a central kiosk up there, a board with a list of names and room numbers. _Pinchas_ is in room 2821, but a nurse taps his arm and points and there she is.

At the end of the hallway.

Staring, staring down at Fort Washington Avenue with her back to him.

Her hair is shorter, just past her shoulders, and she wears a grey sweater and black pants. Simple. Sophisticated. There is a coat folded over her arms.

She radiates sorrow.

"Ziva?"

She turns part-way. Her face is blank. "Tony."

He takes one step, then another. Awkward. He is going to trip over his stupid Italian leather shoes. "I came as quick as I could."

She nods, still not fully facing him. "Thank you."

He nods, too. "How is he?"

Ziva shrugs. "The second opinion is the same as the first. There is nothing they can do."

Schmiel is old, but this is just un-goddamned-fair. "I'm so sorry."

She shrugs again. "I do not know what I was expecting. They said in Israel that they could buy him time…why did I think it would be different here?"

He takes another step. "Because you had hope."

She rolls her eyes. "Asking him to travel all this way for nothing."

"Was it _nothing_ when you sent me that text?"

She shakes her head. "No." She turns to look at him, then. Her eyes sweep up and down. Up and down again. "I did not expect you would come."

He is a little angry now. "I have stopped _time_ to look for you _twice_. Circled the globe. New York is just a three-hour train ride. You should've thought about that, Sweet Cheeks."

The nickname takes them both aback. She looks at him, cocks her head. "I missed you."

His heart drops again, but it is different this time. "Me, too."

Tony's arms are out. Ziva steps into them and the world rights itself.

This is why he is here.

He kisses her head. She steps back and kisses his mouth. Steps back, but not away. "Schmiel would like to see you."

Tony's stomach quivers, but he acquiesces.

Room 2821. Schmiel is so tiny and shriveled in the bed. No IVs, no ports, no machines.

Dying people do not need fluids or medicine or vital signs.

Dying people make Tony very nervous.

"Hi," he offers.

Schmiel claps his dry, withery hands together. "Tony! A delight to see you."

A _delight_.

"I wish I could say the same," he fumbles. "Ziva told me—"

Schmiel nods, palms still pressed together. "My Ziva hopes where there is no hope."

She glares at him.

He smiles and winks. " _Motek,_ will you fetch me some fresh cold water? I dislike lukewarm tap water. Especially lukewarm New York tap water."

Ziva picks up the half-empty pitcher. He knows that she knows he is kicking her out. "Would you like some tea, also?"

"No, but a few of those biscuits would be nice. The vanilla flavor."

Schmiel winks at Tony. Ziva's boots make soft sounds on the hallway tile. He sobers once she is gone. "Tony."

"Hi," he says again. He is awful and awkward.

Schmiel knows. He is kind. He is gentle, as though Tony is a boy. And to Schmiel, he likely is. "She will bury me within weeks. Do not let her do that alone."

Tony's response is automatic. He would never. "I won't."

"You will have to fly to Israel."

He nods, nods, nods. "I know. It's ok."

"I can pay for it."

He will not take a dying man's money. He will not take _anyone's_ money. "No, I'll take care of it."

"She has lost everyone except for you. Please—as my last wish for her—do not let her do this alone."

"I won't," he promises.

Duty of love. Duty of pain.

"I'm so sorry, Schmiel."

"Why are you apologizing, Tony? Death is part of life. I'd hoped to have another year with my Ziva, but Hashem has said ' _maspeek_.' Enough. It is time to go. I have done all I can. I suppose she will have to be ready."

Ziva returns, pitcher in one hand, a small package of tea biscuits in the other. She gives them both a suspicious look. "You have been talking about me."

"Why do you think I sent you out?" Schmiel counters, and reaches for the austere-looking cookies. "Thank you, dear. Now why don't the two of you go have a nice late lunch? This old man would like to eat tea biscuits in peace."

Ziva looks at Tony with big, dark, questioning eyes. He nods. "All right."

"Are you sure?" she asks. Her voice is soft, slightly pleading.

"Go," Schmiel says firmly. "I will be here with my biscuits when you return."

She nods. Tony holds out his arm and she takes it, and then leads him to a diner on Amsterdam Avenue and orders him a reuben, her a salad. He eats with big bites. She nibbles, mostly pushes it around.

"We are flying back to Israel tomorrow."

He swallows the last bite. "What are you doing?"

Her brow creases. "Excuse me?"

"With your life, Zee-vah."

She plays with her food some more. "I have been working with Schmiel, especially since the diagnosis." There is an odd, dark confidence in her eyes when she looks up. "I am going to take over his project, researching and translating."

She really _has_ left the killing behind. "Wow. Heady. Ziva of the Ivory Tower."

"I am enjoying it."

"What are you going to do?"

"He has already planned the burial and funeral. The _Chevra Kadisha_ is on standby. I am not an immediate family member, so I am not required to sit shiva."

"And after?"

She shrugs, pushes her plate aside. Tony has never seen her fingernails so ragged.

"I will…I will finish his work and send it to the publisher. They are waiting."

Everyone is waiting.

"I will…I do not know. Perhaps I will find another project. Perhaps I will do something else."

"Have you been living like this?"

She blinks at him. Her face is blank again. "I have been splitting my time between my apartment in Tel Aviv and my family home in Be'er Sheva. Or _had_ been, until Schmiel called."

"When was that?"

"Two weeks ago."

"I wish you'd called me," he admits, but he has no right.

 _Right?_

She presses her lips together. "I could not…I _cannot_ …believe I am about to lose another person. I know Schmiel is quite old, but I thought we had…"

"More time," he finishes for her.

"Yes."

She falls silent. He signals for the bill, but Ziva swipes it before he can. She puts down cash and stands up. "Can we walk?"

She has probably been sitting and waiting and _waiting_ for days now. "Yeah. Let's grab a coffee, huh?"

She smiles her thanks. He buys her a latte and they walk West along 168th to Riverside Park. The trees are still bare, the Hudson flat and muddy-brown beneath the overcast sky.

They walk north. Ziva shivers and shrinks in her coat. "You think I would be used to death by now."

"I'd say this is pretty different than sniping people from a hillside over Riyadh."

They stop near a cluster of rocks. She holds her latte in both hands and watches the muddy river slide by. Ziva drops her gaze to the sidewalk. "I am angry at him."

"He's abandoning you. Not intentionally, but nonetheless."

She nods. "He made Israel home again."

She is already talking like he's dead.

"He gave me things to do and people to visit. He brought me books and tea biscuits. He made me leave my apartment. He gave me work. _Good_ work. Fulfilling work."

He gives her a nudge. "You can still do that work."

"I can," she acknowledges. "But it will not be the same."

"Nothing will."

"He is a surrogate grandfather to me, Tony."

He knows. "Part of what makes grandparents so precious is the short time we have with them. I think the best thing you can do is continue your work." He stops and tosses his coffee cup. "Especially among people who love you."

 _Like me me me_.

Ziva takes his hand, but does not look away from the brown, rolling river. "Can you stay tonight?"

"I'll stay as long as you need."

Her grip tightens, tightens. The earth shifts again, the street rumbles. A subway train slides beneath them, headed downtown.

"Thank you," she sighs.

They walk back to the hospital, but Schmiel is asleep among the biscuit crumbs. She tucks him in, brushes the crumbs away, and turns the lights low.

"Can we walk?" she asks again, and they head downtown on Broadway. Down and down to the 1 train stop on 137th. She leads him down the steps to the downtown platform and laces their fingers together. "I do not think I can move back here, Tony."

He wants to drop to the platform, curl in a ball, and die. Instead he exhales, holds her hand tightly, and tries to smile. "I know."

The train comes. They board, standing-room-only, and get off twenty-seven blocks south.

She has rented an apartment at 110th and Riverside Drive, nine floors up. It is clean but bland, with white walls and the biggest kitchen a Manhattan rental will afford.

Not that it matters. The refrigerator contains only bottled water, the pantry a single package of vanilla tea biscuits. "Monastic," he muses.

She shrugs. "I have spent most of my time at the hospital with Schmiel."

It's now or never. "He asked me to stick around."

Ziva swallows and will not look at him. "We are flying back to Israel—"

"I want to go with you."

She stares and stares.

He digs in his heels. The cheap carpet flattens under his stupid, _stupid_ Italian leather shoes. "I promised you that you weren't alone. I know you remember that. I meant it. I want to _keep_ meaning it."

Ziva gapes. She shifts. She starts, stops, starts, stops.

But she does not refuse.

The silence stretches, the two of them still in their coats, the traffic humming below.

"Your job," she says eventually. Weakly. "Gibbs."

"I'll work it out."

She nods.

More silence.

He feels heavy, sluggish, like the air is pressing him down where he stands. "I'll buy a plane ticket tonight. Think I can get on your flight?"

She pulls her cell phone from her coat pocket. "I can make some calls."

Ziva has connections, of course. That is who she is. What she does.

What she _did_.

She speaks clipped, urgent Hebrew into the telephone. He hands her his credit card and she—he guesses—reads off the numbers and hands up. "Itinerary and boarding pass are in your email." She stares at her blank phone. "There were so many times I wanted to call, Tony. But I always talked my myself out of it. You have a _life_. You have a _career_. You probably had a _girlfriend_. I convinced myself that I had no right. But when Schmiel's health took a downturn I could not stop myself. I was—I _am_ afraid." Her words come faster, louder. "I am no stranger to loss, but this is different. This is… _harder_."

"You're watching him suffer."

She holds her hands out. "I have never felt helpless like this, Tony. I have never felt useless."

He sits in one of the hard dining chairs, hoping she will finally look at him. "You brought him halfway around the globe because you thought there was a _chance_. You hold onto hope for him. That is definitely not _useless_ , Ziva."

"I have always accepted death as an inevitability," she said. She does not, will not look at him. "Why am I fighting so hard?"

Tony reaches out to brush his fingers against hers. "It's your first instinct, Ziva. Why would you stop?"

She weeps, free hand over her mouth.

He rises slowly, slowly, and takes her in his arms. Her brow is warm where it touches him through his shirt. "I know," he whispers. "I know. It's ok."

It is and it isn't.

Night falls slowly, as it does in early spring. The apartment darkens before the sky, corners and edges softening. He pictures family photos on the walls and tightens his grip on her.

 _At lo levad._

Eventually Ziva pulls away and wipes her eyes, sheds her coat, sighs. "Sorry."

He gives her a small smile. "Don't."

"I do not live by Gibbs' rules anymore." She turns on a table lamp.

Will he say that someday?

"You ever see anyone?"

Her eyebrows go up. "As in-?"

"Uh," he stumbles, feeling adolescent. "You know… _see_ someone."

"No," she says quietly, and the corner of her mouth tips up in a rare, wry smile. "Unless you mean my therapist. I see her twice per week."

"It helps?"

She nods. "Yoga, too. I am learning to…slow down."

He surprises both of them with a chuckle. "So you sleep until five-fifteen now?"

Ziva breaks into a full smile for the first time. "Six."

He whistles. "Someone's getting lazy, huh?"

"Says the man approaching middle age."

He feigns injury. "Low blow, David."

She stops smiling. "For how long will you stay?"

Tony fumbles.

 _Forever._

"For as long as you'll have me."

Ziva studies him for a long, long moment. "Israel is not an easy place, Tony. There are terror attacks. There is unrest. The cost of living is high."

But the cost of living without her again is much, much higher.

"What are you proposing?" he jokes.

It falls flat.

Ziva looks at the floor and says nothing.

She still wears her coat. It is armor. It is keeping him out.

"I have missed you," she mutters. "I have missed you so much. And I did nothing about it, but you are standing here like I never asked you to leave."

 _You. Me. Here. Now._

"I wouldn't put the kybosh to your spiritual quest," he jokes, and again it crashes and burns at his feet. "I love you enough to let—"

 _I love you._

"I love you, too." She blurts it so fast he almost misses it. "And I was worried that you would not have me back. That would would be so angry at me."

"I couldn't," he interrupts. "I wouldn't. I know you needed to get away from all the killing, all the death and bad guys and rules and bureaucracy. I just wish that hadn't meant leaving me, too."

And now everything has been laid out.

Tony holds his breath.

Ziva nods, nods, nods. "Me, too." Her sudden shyness hurts him deep in his chest. "And if I asked for a second chance—as if I had the _right_ —"

He lifts his arms, lifts the whole blank apartment. "I'm _here_."

"What if you come to regret it?"

He's getting frustrated. "What if the sky falls, Chicken Little?"

Her brow furrows. They study each other—or _he_ studies _her_ for a second; her eyes are darker, ringed with fatigue, her shoulders slumped, her throat twitching delicately above the collar of her sweater.

She scowls at him. "What does that mean, Tony?"

"I can't think about _what if._ I'm here. You're here. Schmiel is here. Let's…"

 _Let's what?_

"Let _me_ honor my promises. To you. To Schmiel."

Her lip trembles, but she holds back the tears. "Tony, you are the best man I have ever known."

He sits next to her, wraps an arm around her shoulders. She still wears her coat. "Wanna take this off?"

"I am fine."

The apartment is New-York-Overheated. "You cold?"

"Fine."

"Sick?"

She elbows him, but curls up tight to his side. "Jetlagged."

"Then go to bed."

"Come with me."

His pants are too damned tight. "You work fast, Sweet Cheeks."

"I do not want to sleep alone."

 _Down, boy_. He pulls her up. "C'mon. Bedtime."

The peel off their clothes, slide beneath the blankets in the dark bedroom. It is the tail-end of rush hour. Cars still creep down 110th street. A few horns blare.

" _Sha_ ," Ziva shushes. "Do they never stop that?"

"Not really."

She mumbles something, eyes half-closed, and maybe it's not English.

Her sorrow takes up space between them.

Tony kisses her mouth. "Goodnight."

She blinks, half-smiles. " _Laila tov_."

. . . .


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you, everyone. Really. I had no idea...**

 **Disclaim: Nope.**

. . . .

Schmiel insists on walking through the airport even though Ziva pesters and pesters to get him a wheelchair. He boards on his own, sits in a row by himself, and orders a gin and tonic.

They are all seated in first class.

Ziva will not let Tony stow their bags and gives him a look when he takes a tiny bag of goldfish crackers from the pre-flight snack basket. "Security took a long time. I'm hungry again."

"They will serve breakfast soon."

It is barely sunup. A Thursday.

They are all sleep-deprived.

The doctors prescribed morphine before releasing Schmiel from the hospital.

Taxi. Take-off. Dulles growing smaller, smaller. All of DC shrinking, the ocean growing and growing. They will fly forever.

Not forever. Fourteen hours and thirty-five minutes.

Ziva sleeps on and off. Schmiel dozes, paces, reads and re-reads a clutch of papers in a plain blue folder.

And Tony watches and waits and does not let go of Ziva's hand.

Touchdown is bumpy. It is raining in Tel Aviv.

A customs agent in IDF olive drab smiles as she stamps his passport. "Welcome home."

They say that to everyone, right?

They are taken by limousine to Schmiel's apartment in the north of Tel Aviv, where a wide green park and a river separates the neighborhood from the rest of the city.

Tony can't read the street signs.

Ziva speaks softly, urgently to the nurse who greets them at the door and gives Schmiel kisses on both cheeks.

"Go home," he orders. He is weak, tired. "Get some rest. I will see you tomorrow."

She nods.

They get back in the limo and Tony holds her hand again.

They cross the river, meander south along the shore. Traffic builds. "Where are we going?" he finally asks.

"I live in Neve Tzedek. Schmiel lives near the university."

He nods as though that explains it.

They finally get out on a narrow street perpendicular to the shore. The breeze smells like salt and coffee. Her apartment is a loft above the sea with an iron spiral staircase and a clean white kitchen.

"It is so musty," she complains, and swings the terrace doors open.

He pushes their suitcases aside. "Haven't you been gone for like, three days?"

She shrugs. "Everything is damp so close to the sea. I usually have a housekeeper come while I am away, but she is visiting family in Jerusalem this week."

His shirt feels a bit sticky, now that he thinks about it, and Ziva looks wilted. She falls to the wide, grey sofa. He does, too. It's softer than it looks.

"Nice," he muses.

She smiles, hands folded over her middle. "You like it?"

"Gorgeous."

He means more than just the space.

Ziva levers herself off the couch. "Would you like a tour?"

 _Oh, yes._

He gets up, too. She takes his hand.

They touch constantly now.

They make a circle in the big, open space. Soft area rugs over hardwood floors, gleaming quartz and glass, overstuffed furniture. "Kitchen, living area, office." Up the staircase is a master suite, second bath, and small guest room. It is empty save one small table and a lamp.

"Don't want anyone getting too comfortable," he smirks.

"I do not have guests, and the office is downstairs…"

Something about her posture says _Red-Light Zone_. "Maybe a reading nook?"

"Maybe," she echoes. Her eyes wander.

He carries their luggage upstairs. She is still standing in the smaller room, arms crossed. "How long will you stay?"

They have gone there again and again.

"I told you," _ten times_ , he bites back. "As long as you need."

"There is much do to in the area," she says vaguely. "We can walk to Rothschild Boulevard for shopping or restaurants or go to the beach once the weather warms up, or drive out to the desert for _tiyulim_." She blinks. "Hiking."

"I'm here for Schmiel and for _you_ ," he reminded gently. "You don't have to entertain me, Ziva."

"I am… _boring_ ," she sighs. "I read. I do research. I spend hours in the university library. You cannot possibly think that is exciting." She bobs her head. The dark circles reappear beneath her eyes. "I should unpack."

He sits on the end of her big, soft bed. "What are you working on?"

Side-eye. She folds a sweater. "I am writing."

"Writing what? A novel? A memoir?"

"Do not make fun of me."

"I'm not."

Her nose twitches. "I am compiling a collection of personal essays."

He smiles. "Sounds fancy."

She goes to the dresser. Adjusts the lacy cover-thing. What are they called? "It is a collection of essays by women who have survived captivity by jihadi terror groups. She looks at him in the mirror. "Is this not the part where you call me an attention-seeker and a narcissist?"

Tony's jaw falls. "Ziva." He shakes his head. "Ziva. _No_. That is—"

 _Brave._

 _Beautiful._

 _Terrifying_.

"Remarkable," he finally says.

"They come to me in so many languages, from so many places. Most I can translate on my own, but there are some in regional dialects that require research." She motions. Her hands are soft and urgent. "I have learned some Tagalog and some Marwari, but I still need help. The university hired experts, but I only have them for so many hours as per their contract—" She stops, takes a breath, turns and looks at him. "Schmiel gave me the project. Women from everywhere have sent their work. India, Syria, Eritrea, Ukraine." She pauses again. "It has been important to me. Validating."

" _The pen is mightier_ ," he quotes.

She nods. Drops her gaze. Picks her cuticles.

He stills her hands. "Talk to me."

"I had a complete hysterectomy. A year ago. I have had several infections from…and they did irreversible damage and increased my cancer risk significantly. It was not an easy decision, but my long-term reproductive health prospects were not good anyway." She looked at him. "I felt you should know."

"That's major surgery," he pointed out. "Why didn't you call me? I would have come to help you."

"I recovered quickly."

"I'm sorry you went through it alone."

"I am sorry if that changes anything between us."

His jaw falls again.

She wants something permanent.

So does he.

But the timing?

"Isn't it a little…early to be talking about these things?"

Ziva crosses her arms. "You said yourself that we are both getting older. If you want a family—"

"One step at a time," he interrupts.

Her gaze falls somewhere outside the tall, west-facing windows. "I have been thinking about life lately."

He forgot they are waiting for Schmiel to die.

She sits next to Tony. "Time will not stop for him. He told me, when we arrived in New York, to look toward the future."

How long between that and the time she'd sent that text?

Tony is too warm, too sleepy, too content. "I'm glad he said that. I'm glad you _listened_."

She tucks herself closer to him. "I did not think you would come."

But he did. "And here we are. Tony and Ziva in future tense."

She honest-to-god _giggles_. "I suppose I am lucky."

 _Lucky_ can't begin to cover it. "Me, too."

She yawns widely. He has no idea what time it is, only that the rain has stopped, though the terrace—

 _There is a rooftop terrace_.

-is still wet.

"Can we lie down?" she asks.

He slides back, brings her with him. Ziva clicks a button on a remote and solar shades roll down to dim the room.

 _Remote control shades and a rooftop terrace._

He forgot she has money.

"Comfy?"

She hums. Her breathing evens out quickly, but Tony cannot turn it off.

He is in Tel Aviv.

He gave no notice beyond one phone call. Gibbs had only said, _Yeah, DiNozzo_ and then _Take care of both of you_.

Tim is probably pissed. Abby, too.

And Senior?

Tony gets up slowly, but Ziva does not stir. He goes downstairs, scopes out the kitchen, the empty fridge, the bare pantry.

He grabs his wallet, his phone.

He uses a navigational app to find a supermarket.

The store is nine blocks away, but what Tel Aviv calls a _block_ is short. He walks it in less than ten minutes and finds everything labeled in English as well as Hebrew. He buys milk and coffee, bread, eggs, tomatoes and cucumbers. Fresh parsley and cilantro. Rice. Lentils. Four small fish he will fry in butter and onions. There is little by way of meat or chicken, so he skips it. Granola. Yogurt, as Ziva likes them. Sugar, flour.

Sticker shock: food, even staples, are pricy. He hands over his credit card card without wincing.

The cashier smiles, obviously recognizes the popular American bank that issued his card. "Welcome home."

They say that to everyone, right?

"Thanks," he fumbles. His neck is hot.

He totes the bags back to the apartment and organizes the contents in the cabinets and refrigerator. Labels out. Jars and packages aligned. He slices the onion, melts the butter in a frying pan, dices tomato. Sautés it, removes the vegetables, puts in the fish. A sprinkle of lemon. Fresh French bread.

Ziva appears, sleepy-eyed, rumpled. "You cooked?"

"These sea bream are gorgeous. Look."

He tips the pan toward her. She smiles. "Thank you."

They eat on the terrace. He houses the bread, the fish, sucks a quarter of lemon once the food is gone. Ziva prepares mint tea for them and they watch the sun slide beneath the Mediterranean.

If this is going to be his life, well, it's not half-bad.

His cell trills. The overseas roaming charges are going to be _absurd_. "DiNozzo."

"Anthony," Schmiel crackles. "Did you see that sunset? Stunning!"

He grins. "We're on the terrace."

"You will never know a sunset like an Israeli sunset."

He would never know anything like an Israeli… _anything_. "It's beautiful."

"Is my Ziva all right?"

She is side-eyeing him, suspicious, a little shy. "She's beautiful."

She rolls her eyes.

Schmiel laughs a creaky laugh. "Will you come by for a visit tomorrow? I have recovered from travel and I would love to take tea on the veranda with you both."

Tel Aviv: City of Patios. "We'd love to."

"Three o'clock, please. Thank you."

Schmiel hangs up. Tony hangs up.

"Three o'clock tea time tomorrow," he informs her.

She nods. "You need a local phone."

"Can I get the David discount?"

She smirks. "I pay a regular bill, Tony."

"You're royalty here."

"My father's name follows me everywhere." Her voice is tinged with anger, with regret. "But I am trying to live a good life."

Becauseof Eli? _In spite_ of him?

"You're doing great."

She gives him a tiny, shy smile. "Thank you."

It is warm. The sound of the waves is pleasing, lulling.

This is going to be his life.

He sits up, sharp, abrupt, breathing hard. The dark sky, the sea, the pot of mint tea –all endless.

 _This is going to be his life_.

Ziva is looking at him, eyebrows raised. "Are you ok?"

"Is this permanent?" he blurts. He is panting, heart racing. "Is this…" He swallows, gasps, grips the iron rim of the terrace table. "Are we doing this, Ziva?"

She gapes, curls her knees up. "I—"

"If this is going to be it, then I need to _know_. My condo. My piano. My movies. I—"

"Yes," she says, and her voice carries grace and confidence. "It is what I want. If you—"

"Yes."

He is making another promise _._

How does he say _yes_ in Hebrew?

Ziva puts out her hand. He takes it.

 _This is going to be his life._

"This is huge," he bursts.

She is still curled, a comma. A pause. Ziva-the-Killer is gone. She has left some strange, quiet anxiety in her stead. Ziva-the-Nervous?

No.

Ziva-the-Thoughtful.

"It is."

A terrace on the Mediterranean Sea. A loft apartment in Tel Aviv. A dying Schmiel.

But the _living_.

He has to pack. Sell his condo. Sell his car. Quit his job.

 _Quit his job._

"Quit my job."

She is mulling, too. "Hm?"

He feels _weird_.

And joyful.

"I need to quit my job."

"Could you just transfer? Work remotely for a different department?"

He's got no chops in computer crimes. No chops in Intel. No chops in…well, much besides chasing criminals. "No," he sighs. "I don't think—"

 _I don't think I want to._

"I don't think that will work."

Ziva sniffs. "You do not want to."

She always sees right through him.

"Maybe I'm ready to make a career change, too."

"You should consider _ulpan_ if you are going to work here. It is a…crash course, yes?...in Hebrew and Israeli culture. It is not expensive—"

"Learn Hebrew, huh?"

"This is a young country," she warns. "We are proud. English is widely spoken, but if you are going to work in government—"

"Not sure I want to do that."

She harrumphs. "What would you like to do?"

The last of the light bleeds from the horizon. "Liquidate," he says finally. "I'll have a little nest egg to live on, at least for a while. Then I can think about it," he gave her a nudge. "And you don't have to worry about charging me rent."

A tiny smile graces her face. "We are both...I want to get to know you again."

 _If this is going to be his life—_

"I am not the same person you left on that tarmac," she continues. Her hands dance, her skin golden in the lamplight that spills from inside. "I worry that you will not feel the same about who I have become."

"A kinder, gentler Ziva David?"

His joke dies between them. Tenderness has always lurked beneath her killer reflexes. "Is that how you remember—"

"No."

"I do not want to be that person, Tony. Not anymore."

"I love _all_ of you, Ziva."

She sucks in a breath. "Tony."

He laces their fingers and gives a squeeze.

She exhales. "I know."

It means, _I love you, too._

They are quiet for a minute. Two. Five. The waves, the building sounds—dishes, the garage door rising and lowering, children bouncing a ball on the sidewalk.

"This is a good life," he sighs.

He hears her breath catch. Is she laughing? Crying? "I bought this apartment a year ago. The first few days I wandered from room to room fantasizing about sharing it with you. Where your workspace would be, mine." She motions, shakes her head. "How you would argue with me about how to organize the kitchen. And I allowed myself to do it, because I thought it was all just that—fantasy. You were seeing someone else. NCIS was carrying on without me. I made myself let go. Again."

Tony says nothing, nothing, nothing.

"And then Schmiel called and it all crashed down. You were the first person I thought of. I did not mention it to him, but I am sure he knew, or he would not have told me to call."

"I'm glad he did." He gets up. His body creaks, tired. "Be right back."

He damned near breaks his neck sprinting up the spiral staircase. Tears open his bag, shakes out the tiny tissue-paper package.

Her necklace. The Star of David winks at him.

Tony dashes back down, thrusts it out before him. "I kept this."

Ziva laugh-cries. "I knew you would."

He fastens it around her neck.

 _At lo levad._

A promise kept.

She touches the charm, smiles, leans up to kiss him. "Thank you."

He breathes her in and in. She is the sea and the desert, the heart and the head. "Guess I need to learn how to say _you're welcome_ in Hebrew."

Ziva laughs a puff of warm air against his neck. " _B've'kasha."_

He kisses her one last time and sinks into his chair. He is fed. A content, sleepy feeling tugs at him. His eyes slide closed, then open, then closed. "Think I need to hit the rack, Zee-vah."

Is he slurring?

She laughs lowly. "Come, Tony."

She pulls him inside, up the stairs, helps him peel off his clothes. He crawls beneath the blankets and sighs. He squints at the clock; 0645. Rush hour is not even over yet.

"You coming in?"

Ziva's smile is soft in the dark. "I am tired, too."

But they are not _that_ tired. His hands find all the places she loves to be touched. The familiar dip at the small of her back, the divots above her collarbones. She is softer, her body more pliant than he remembers.

Her teeth sink into his earlobe as they climax together—always together—and he groans aloud. They pant, slick-skinned, and she finally rolls off of him, arms flying loose.

Her hair is everywhere. He threads his fingers through it, scratches her scalp.

"I love you, too," she whispers.

Tony sighs. Everything shifts again. Zöe, his condo, his job…they all slip a little farther away.

 _If this is going to be his life, well—_

Ziva curls against him. His knees brush the backs of hers.

She is the sea and the desert. The heart and the head.

 _-it's really, really good._


	3. Chapter 3

**The response to this story has been so lovely-almost overwhelming. I am always so surprised when I create something that finds a place in the world where it is appreciated.**

 **Thank you all so, so much.**

 **Disclaim: pffft.**

 **. . . .**

Tony trades his Armani and Hugo Boss suits for lightweight cotton trousers and short sleeves, Italian leather lace-ups for soft driving moccasins. He tries on sunglasses, a trilby, a fedora with a wide brim.

Ziva gives him an appreciative look in the mirror. "Dashing."

He buys it all.

The clerk smiles and rings him out. "Welcome home."

He turns to her once they're out the door. "They say that to everyone, right?"

She touches the brim of her sun hat and smiles.

Rothschild Boulevard is quiet in the afternoon. Some shops have rolled down their gates. Restaurants have closed between lunch and dinner. Tony's eyes droop.

He is still jetlagged.

Ziva loops her arm through his. "Do you need a _siesta_?"

He thinks about lying. They could have a coffee at one of the zillion little cafes and he could drink in her skin and the afternoon light.

Instead he sighs. "Yeah."

She tugs him home.

 _Home_.

Her—

- _their_

-apartment is cool, clean. She shoos him up the stairs. "Go rest, Tony. I will do a little work while you sleep, and then we will take dinner to Schmiel."

They eat with him every evening. Rather, _he_ watches _them_ eat. Schmiel has no appetite, no energy. His nurse has begun measures to keep him comfortable.

But each evening he tells a story about Ziva.

Ziva was a stubborn toddler.

Ziva was an excellent student.

Ziva was a ballerina, a champion swimmer, a black belt by age thirteen.

Ziva is about to have a book published.

And, blushing, she retorts, _It is an academic publication. It will certainly not make me any money._

Schmiel's face glows with pride when he talks about her. Tony grins and grins.

But there is always a story beneath the stories:

 _Ziva can be stubborn._

 _Ziva can be angry._

 _Ziva doubts anyone loves her._

 _Ziva fought and fought to survive._

 _And everyone was surprised when she did._

Tony stands on the bottom step for a minute, watching her move across the floor to the office, open the shades, open her laptop. He watches the curve of her back, the rise and fall of her shoulders as she sighs.

 _Ziva is grieving._

He goes to her. "I'm sorry."

She gives him a small, wry smile. "Me, too." She sits, puts her hands on her knees. "But I am going to continue his work. I feel it is my responsibility. And I _want_ to." She gives him a side-eye. "You know, there is an _ulpan—_ an intensive Hebrew language course—at the university the same night I teach Schmiel's poetry seminar. We could carpool."

"You sure you want to be seen with Training Wheels DiNozzo? What will your colleagues think?"

"They want to meet you."

She has told them about him.

His face is warm. "Oh, yeah?"

"They asked if there had been anyone… _important_ back in the States. I said yes. That should _hardly_ come as a surprise, _Mon Petit Pois_." Her smile fades, disappears. "I am sure you will meet them when they pay their _shiva_ calls."

He places his palm between her shoulder blades. "Is there anything I can do?"

She swallows. The bones of her spine shift beneath his hand. He counts them, counts the slow breaths she takes. "Help me plan a Shabbat meal for them after the shiva week."

"Absolutely," he agrees.

She is a little religious now. A _little._ She says a few psalms every morning, on the terrace, when the sun is rising and he is drinking coffee and she is beautiful, beautiful. She reads the weekly Torah portion on Thursday evenings. She tucks her phone in a drawer and lights Shabbat candles.

She has no expectations that he will do the same.

But he put his phone away on Friday night before dinner and after they shared Calvo's _Invisible Cities_ , each reading a chapter aloud until it was finished. They ate challah cold salads for lunch on Saturday and napped together that afternoon, limbs intertwined, her breath soft on his skin.

A peace fills his heart like he had never known.

Tony is suddenly so tired he could fall over.

"I gotta—" he says.

She jerks, stares. "Can you make it upstairs?"

The whole apartment spins crazily. He wobbles to the sofa and collapses.

And then the cushions dip and there is a warm hand on his arm. "Tony?"

He peels one eye open. Everything is blurry except Ziva's pale, worried, sad face.

"The nurse called," she says quietly. "Schmiel wants to see us."

He splashes cold water on his face at the kitchen sink and they are off.

She drives fast, squinting as the waning sun sets Tel Aviv's skyscrapers aflame.

Schmiel is tiny in the bed. Grey. Shriveled. But his eyes are clear and bright and he holds a hand out to them.

Ziva takes it. "I love you," she says.

He smiles, unable to speak.

She is stoic, her voice clear and calm. "It is ok, Schmiel. You can go."

His breathing slows.

Tony steps closer to the bed. His throat closes. Tears build behind his eyes. He tries to smile. "I'll keep my promises."

Schmiel winks. His mouth falls open. His breathing is slower yet. Slower.

 _Slower_.

And then it stops.

Somewhere a clock ticks. Ziva is still holding his hand. She puts her other one over both of them.

She is trying to keep him warm.

The nurse comes in. " _Baruch Dayan HaEmet,_ " she whispers. "The Burial Society is on their way."

Ziva puts Schmiel's hand back on the bed. She pulls up a chair. "I will sit with him until they arrive." She turns to him. "May I have a moment, please?"

Tony nods. "Do you need—"

"No," she whispers.

She sings softly, in Hebrew. It is a tune he has heard only once before.

He steps out. The nurse is making notes on a chart. There is a platter of bread and cheeses on the kitchen counter. "Help yourself," she says, motioning, but he declines.

Schmiel's apartment is garden-level. There are potted tomato plants and geraniums on the terrace. He left instructions for Ziva to sell it, but keep his valuables and Holocaust reparation monies. His books will go to the university.

Maybe Tony will plant some flowers for her.

A knock; a young man in a skullcap asks: " _Shmuel ben Tzipporah_?"

The nurse points at the bedroom.

Ziva comes out, face tear-streaked, hair a wild mane. " _Baruch Dayan HaEmet._ Thank you," she says to the nurse. And to Tony: "We can go."

The air has cooled. Cars are sweeping down the boulevard. Children are running between the buildings.

"Can I help you make phone calls?" he asks once they're in the car. "I'm sure your colleagues will want to know."

Ziva puts her hand over her mouth and weeps.

Tony tries, fails, to comfort her. "I'm sorry," he keeps saying.

Maybe he will live without Gibbs' rules, too.

"Me, too," she finally says. "Everyone is teaching their night classes. I will email instead. I am sure they will come to the burial."

They will put Schmiel in the ground tomorrow.

Ziva drives south along the shore. Tony watches the last of the light bleed from the sky.

 _Goodnight, Schmiel_.

 _Goodnight, my friend._

He looks at Ziva in the glow of passing streetlights. She is stony and straight-backed.

"You don't have to fake it for me," he says.

Her lip trembles, but she keeps it together. "I am relieved that he is no longer suffering. The nurse said his pain was terrible in the last few days."

And still he'd hosted them.

Tony puts his hand over hers. "He loved you. He was proud of you."

She is crying again. "I know. I loved him, too. I always will."

Schmiel gave her a home. Work.

Safety.

They check the mail before heading up to her—

- _their_

apartment.

There is a card addressed to Tony.

Inside: _Welcome home. Love, Schmiel_.

Maybe they don't say that to everyone.

He tucks the note in his back pocket.

Ziva looks up from pawing through bills and junk mail. "What's that?"

He gives her a smile. "A little welcome note."

That night he registers for the Hebrew language intensive.

The printer spits out the confirmation, a campus map, a parking pass, a list of books. Ziva picks it up and smiles at him. Her eyes are golden in the lamplight.

"Schmiel would be proud of you."

 _This is his life_.

He kisses her.

They snack on salad and leftover chicken while standing at the kitchen counter and the phone rings. Tony answers.

Because it is _their_ apartment.

Gibbs. "How is she?"

"You heard."

"Email came in a minute ago."

Tony swallows one last chunk of tomato. "She's relieved he's not suffering anymore."

"You doing ok?"

"Yeah."

It's late afternoon in DC. Gibbs is at work. Tony can hear the bullpen humming in the background. "You gonna come back to sell off your stuff?"

He doesn't want to. "I'll have a broker do it."

Ziva watches him and toys with her fork.

"You always got a desk here, DiNozzo. Might make you ride it for a while—"

Translation: _If you hurt her I will murder you and get away with it._

"But it'll be here."

Tony sighs, smiles. "Thanks, Boss."

"Don't be a stranger."

Another promise to keep. "I won't."

"Tell Ziver I'm thinkin' of her."

"On it."

Gibbs hangs up and goes back to work. _Grab your gear._

Tony returns the phone to the base and looks around.

 _This is his life_.

"I thought he should know," Ziva says. She runs water, rinses their plates, puts them in the dishwasher.

"I'm glad you told him. Said he was thinking of you."

She wipes her hands on a towel. "You make him proud, too, Tony."

Maybe this is what Gibbs wanted for him all along.

"Yeah," he fumbled.

She brews chamomile tea, looks to the terrace. It is where they spend most evenings. "Shall we?"

He opens the door for her and the take their customary seats.

There is honey in the tea and a plate of austere vanilla cookies on a plate.

The tide is coming in. The revelers are headed out. Voices and soft music drift up from the café on the corner.

"I think I'll plant some flowers out here," he says.

"I would love that," she agrees.

"Maybe some tomatoes."

"And herbs."

The breeze cools his skin, cools his tea, which he drinks with his ankle tented on his knee. "Know any good brokers?"

She lifts her eyebrows. "For?"

"My condo."

"You do not want to keep it?"

 _This is his life._

"Nah."

She is quiet for a minute. "I know someone. I will call her after the burial."

Tomorrow they will put Schmiel in the ground.

"Someone is with him," Ziva says. "One of his former students, I am sure. They will say _tehillim._ " She looks at him, eyes shining with tears, and shrugs. "We do not leave our dead alone."

He takes her hand. It is cool and slim in his. "I am worried about the living."

Her mouth pulls down, but she shakes her head. "I am…"

 _Don't lie to me_.

She takes a breath, holds it, lets it out. "I am glad I am not doing this alone."

He has kept his promises.

She squeezes his hand so hard it hurts. Tears course down her cheeks and catch the lamplight that spills out from inside. "Thank-."

"Don't," he interrupts. There is heat in his belly and mouth. "This is where I want to be."

"I have asked a lot of you. So did Schmiel."

"I could have said _no_."

"Your life in DC…"

 _Is no life compared to this._

"It's time for a change," he says firmly. He has run his course at NCIS. In law enforcement.

In Washington.

In the States.

Tomorrow they will drive to the Mount of Olives and lay Schmiel to rest.

And Monday he will carpool with Ziva to Tel Aviv University and take his first Hebrew class.

He will wear his new hat, his new loafers, his new sunglasses.

Ziva will wear a soft cotton dress to teach her poetry seminar. She will read aloud to her class, the book held between her slim fingers, her chin raised. She will ask questions. She will field responses, grade papers, sit in Schmiel's office— _her_ office—and grade papers.

Tony and Ziva in future tense.

Ziva gets up, collects their empty tea cups. "Come, Tony."

He follows her in, up the stairs, to the desk in the tiny room. Inside the bottom drawer are books. A stack. All of them new, the spines unbroken.

 _Hebrew for Beginners._

 _The First Hebrew Primer._

 _Introductory Course in Modern Hebrew._

A chart of the Hebrew alphabet.

A chart of verb forms, root words, vowels.

She gives him a pencil, a notepad, and a shy look. "Shall we start now?"

He has never been so excited to learn anything.

The stretch out on the floor, on their bellies. Ziva starts my naming all the Hebrew letters. She shows him how to write each one, has him practice.

 _Aleph-aleph-aleph-aleph._

 _Bet-bet-bet-bet._

 _Vet-vet-vet-vet._

She teaches him the first vowels: _patach, kamatz._ Vowels are called _nikudot._

She has him combine letters and vowels and say them aloud.

She makes flashcards.

She teaches him a song, sweet and jazzy, as though for children.

 _Aleph-bet-vet /gimel-daled-hay_.

Tony's head grows heavy. Ziva lays hers on his shoulder. "Your instructor is weary."

It is nearly two in the morning.

A limousine is scheduled to pick them up before seven.

They undress and scramble into bed.

"Why do you have all those books?" he asks. Her head is on his shoulder again, her legs tangled with his. He can still hear the sea.

She is quiet, her breath quick on his skin. Crying.

"I was in the campus bookstore one morning and…it was like I could not help myself, Tony, but…so I hid them in the desk. It felt like a secret—that hope that you would come."

"And here I'd tried to drag you on that plane with me."

"I would have called after the burial. Schmiel would have wanted it. _I_ would have wanted it."

 _Do not let her do this alone._

He draws her closer yet. "I was afraid it was you. In the hospital, I mean. I was—"

"Sorry I was not clear."

"My greatest fear, Zee-vah—"

He has stopped time for her. Circled the globe. _Twice._

He would do it a hundred times if he had to.

She sighs, shudders. "Mine, too."

He cries, too. His tears fall on her hair. His fingers trace a single thin scar on her back.

From now they will bear it all together.

Tony eventually drifts off to sleep and wakes to the door buzzer. The limo is there. Ziva snorts. "We overslept!"

He jumps into his suit. She slides into a modest black dress. They race out to the waiting Towncar and are off, taking the 443 freeway South-Southeast.

Tony watches the scenery roll by.

Israel is _beautiful_.

Jerusalem is as old as Tel Aviv is new. Tired sandstone buildings, potholed streets, cobblestone. The corner of the Mount of Olives cemetery where Schmiel is to be buried is on a squat hillside surrounded by commercial properties. Traffic. Delivery trucks.

The coffin is a plain pine box draped with an Israeli flag and a prayer shawl. It is lowered into the only open stone tomb. A crowd has gathered. They are mostly young—students and former-students, colleagues, his only niece. Tony may have known her name.

A group of men gather at the foot of the grave, face the east, and chant in a monotone:

 _Yitgadal v'yitgadash sh'mei rabbah_.

The prayer for the dead. The final sanctification of Schmiel's life.

Ziva clutches his arm, her fingers digging into the soft flesh above and below his elbow. He puts his hand over hers.

 _At lo levad._

She gives him a squeeze: _I know._

The men finish: _V'al kol Yisrael, v'imru amein._

The crowd files down the narrow footpath to the street.

The limo driver has waited.

Tony and Ziva return to Tel Aviv before noon.

Ziva stands in the middle of the living room for a moment, her shoes in her hand, eyes wandering. "That is it."

Schmiel has died and been buried.

"Yeah," Tony says quietly. He is a little afraid she will break.

She looks at him. Her dark eyes are calm. "This is how he wanted it."

 _Do not let her do this alone._

"Yeah," he says again.

Her eyes sweep the room again. "I will change," she announces. "And then I will start the syllabus for the poetry seminar." She blinks. "Would you like to have burgers or chicken for dinner?"

This is his life.

And it is marching forward.

"Guess I should do some studying," he says. He is too hot in his suit. He needs those chinos and t-shirt. "And uh…should we buy a grill for the terrace? A burger isn't a burger unless it's grilled."

She stops on the stairs and side-eyes him. "Can I trust you not to burn the building down?"

"I only set Gibbs' siding on fire that one time."

She turns around in front of him—a silent request to unzip. " _Three_ units were called out."

"I put it out with the garden hose!"

" _After_ it took you five minutes to figure out how to turn it on."

"The water was shut off from inside!"

Tony thinks of the team and a strange sadness bubbles up inside him.

He owes them a proper goodbye.

Ziva emerges from the walk-in wearing a loose cotton sundress. "We can always visit," she says. She always sees through him. "They will always be our friends."

 _Our family_.

He throws on his new pants and shirt, picks up his books.

He can call. He can email. McGee and Abby can Skype.

He goes downstairs. Ziva is making lunch—salad, as usual, and some cheesy-bread-thing.

Tony's stomach growls.

She smiles over her shoulder at him. "It is almost ready."

They eat on the terrace, books, laptop between them. Ziva hums under her breath, paging through a folder. The blue folder, he realizes. The one Schmiel had on the airplane.

"He left everything to me," she says. "I told him not to."

"His only granddaughter."

"He has a niece," she argues between bites.

The cheesy thing is to die for. Tony has seconds. "But only one Ziva."

Side-eye: "And what makes me so special?"

He takes a big bite, chews, swallows. "You expect me to list everything?"

She burst into giggles.

Honest-to-God _giggles_.

 _This is his life_.

"Potential," he says. "You have…you _are_ potential."

She is the desert. She is the sea.

She is his heart. His life.

Tony clears the table. Ziva takes out her books and laptop. He gets out his books and notes.

They smile at each other across the table.

He takes her hand. " _At lo levad,_ " he tells her, careful to let the _L_ dance across his palate. Pronunciation practice starts now.

She giggles again, eyes bright, hair wild in the sea breeze. " _Ani yodei'a_ ," she replies.

 _I know_.

 _ **Fin**._


End file.
